Still Life
by SmithandJones
Summary: Sherlock and John get called in on the murder of an up-and-coming model - but the further they delve, the more complex things become. Set post-Baskerville, spoilers for S1 and mild spoilers for episodes 1&2 of S2.
1. 221B

**Okay, so my first try at a proper story. Apologies for the awful deductions – difficult to write, probably include less of them in future! Enjoy. Review, or be fed to the Hound. **

The footfalls made little noise upon the bare stairs. The house seemed eerily quiet, any slight noise muffled in the oppressive atmosphere. A hand reached out slowly. A door creaked open. A grating protest came from the one remaining hinge. A miasma of thick, pearly grey smoke curled out, the sudden disturbance causing a thousand little flurries to form.

Complete silence reigned.

'Hope you got the biscuits I like.'

At the sound of the calm, clipped baritone John released the breath he'd been holding. After a moments deliberation he took a step into the gloomy living area, bracing himself for the foul smell of another experiment with, as Sherlock termed it, 'Not quite optimum results.' He breathed out a sigh of relief when no entirely unpleasant odours wafted his way.

'What makes you think I've been to the shops yet?' demanded John half-heartedly. 'Also, where exactly are you?'. He peered around warily, looking round for a sign of his wayward flatmate. The smoke appeared to be heavier than air as it only came up to John's knee. But a couple of steps in were adequate to show the whole level of the flat was filled. 'Why, might I ask -' resumed John, unperturbed at Sherlock's unresponsiveness.

'Stop!'

John halted suddenly. The voice had come from directly in front of him. He watched as a figure rose, ghostly, into a sitting position, wisps of what looked to John like fog curling off him.

John raised an eyebrow.

'Experiment?'

'Of course. I hardly turned our sitting room into Dewer's Hollow for nothing. Dry ice, before you ask.'

'Results what you wanted?'

'Inconclusive' sighed Sherlock.

'Well, you can stop now regardless.'

'Need more data.'

'Your lips are going blue. That concentration of carbon dioxide will suffocate you.'

'I'm fine. Slight oxygen depletion of the blood.'

'You'll cause yourself brain damage. Reduce your IQ.'

'I have a couple points to spare, if you haven't noticed.'

'Arrogant sod. Feeling faint yet?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'Fine then.' John sat on the back of Sherlock's chair, getting as far away from the heavy gas as possible. Sherlock remained where he was. A moment passed.

'John?'

'Yes Sherlock?'

'I'd be much obliged if - if you were to open a window. I may be slightly light-headed.'

John grinned and jumped off the back of the chair, extending his hand to his prone friend and pulling him to his feet. Sherlock collapsed into his chair, pale and drawing deep breaths when he thought John was too busy struggling with the window catches to see. Outside, rain pounded the pavement and windows. The fat droplets pounded rhythmically on the open windows.

'I take it you have a case then?'

'Ninety four seconds...' murmured Sherlock ponderously, disregarding his friend's question. He turned suddenly, piercing grey eyes flashing 'Oh, cocoa powder.' he said pointedly.

'Sorry?'

'You asked me how I knew you'd been to the shops. For a start, I knew you've been away for three days - and I know you know it's doubtful I would have bothered to go to the shops in that time. So you knew the flat had no food, and the shop was on your way here from the station - it seemed the logical thing you would do. Also I heard a bag bang against the door as you opened it, likely as you supported it with the crook of your elbow and turned the key with the same hand, your own suitcase was too heavy to be held in such a way. There were two bumps, one significantly lighter, as you left your suitcase and the plastic bag at the top of the stairs, having been distracted by the broken door hinge -'

'Yes, actually, what happened there?'

'Incident with an irate waiter and an arrow yesterday. Irrelevant right now. Also, there's the cocoa powder. The checkout attendant in Tesco fancies you, a fact I gleaned from the frankly menacing glares she threw my way last time I tagged along with you -'

'That was probably because you deduced, *loudly*, how she had recently broken up with her fiancée, and had put on weight from comfort eating and thought I was your boyfriend. Before complaining you were bored and wanted to go home.'

'Yes, yes. Well, anyway, it's true. If I remember correctly, which of course I do, the cocoa powder in that shop is exactly parallel to one of the checkouts. Obviously knocked a jar of the stuff over while pretending to stack shelves just after you joined the queue, hoping you would come help her, probably feigning being worried and anxious at the same time. Sickeningly helpful as you are - don't look at me like that - you did, in the process getting some on the bottom of your left sleeve, see? You started up a conversation at the end of which she gave you her number. It's sticking out of your jacket pocket.'

'That could be a colleague's number. I am just back from a conference, Sherlock.'

'Written in pink gel pen, and with just a name and number! No, no, if it was a colleague they would have included the address of the surgery or hospital they work at, at least. That's assuming they had no business cards.' Sherlock sniffed, looking slightly grumpy at the simplicity of the deduction and still a little pale.

'Right. Well, she's nice anyway; I might give her a call.'

'Unfortunately not.'

'Excuse me?'

'Case.' Sherlock looked at John blankly. 'You asked me did I have one. I don't.' He sighed and shifted uncomfortably. 'This was just an experiment to confirm a theory about a cold case. Inconclusive, but I stick with my theory nonetheless. No way the killer used a parrot, I don't know what Scotland Yard were thinking arresting the owner of the aviary...'

'I did.'

'Hmm?'

'Get the biscuits you like.'

Sherlock grinned widely and sprang up out of his chair. He promptly paled and sank back into it. John sighed.

'Too soon, take a minute. I'll make the tea.'

Twenty minutes later John had just slipped into the kitchen to clear away their mugs when loud, distinctive footsteps pounded up the stairs, stopping short of the door.

'Come in, inspector.' Sherlock's bored voice drawled. Lestrade appeared, his customary suit jacket and white shirt soaked through. His eyes widened slightly at the last wisps of dry ice, and the corner of his mouth tugged upwards at the sight of the petulant detective curled up in his pyjamas.

'Tea, Greg?' called John.

'Please, John. Didn't know you were back, how was the conference?'

'Oh, you know. New regulations for the dispensing of acne antibiotics are hardly riveting, but that's the risks you take with general practice, I suppose.'

'Ah, right. Quiet enough, then? And, er, how was it-' the detective inspector trailed off momentarily '-with Sarah?' he completed, a sympathetic smile warming the brown eyes.

'Well it was... civil.' John smiled. Things had been awkward for a while after their break-up but it had gradually settled into a more-or-less normal working relationship. 'And quiet, yes. I don't attract trouble like some people-' a pointed glance thrown Sherlock's way '-seem to.'

Sherlock feigned an innocent expression.

'Butter wouldn't melt, I'm sure.' John snickered, handing the steaming mug to Lestrade, who was struggling out of his overcoat, and plonking himself heavily back into his chair. 'But you didn't come all the way out here in this-' he inclined his head toward the window 'for tea.'

'No, I-' began Lestrade, preparing to launch into a little speech.

'The model.' Sherlock said in a low voice.

Used to Sherlock as he was, It took Lestrade only a moment to right his slacken jaw. 'Go on then, boy wonder, entertain us.' Lestrade looked expectantly at the stationary figure and took a large gulp of his tea.

Sherlock glared at him, but was too absorbed in his own thoughts to give it any real malice. Sherlock's eyes had taken on an absent, far-away gleam and stared unseeingly past John. 'You've just come from a crime scene at a fashion show. The show hadn't opened yet, and now probably won't. You spent quite a while there, probably been there since last night, trying to work out the specifics of the circumstances of this woman's death. Unsuccessfully, obviously. You also thought the food there was rubbish and went to Speedy's for food not ten minutes ago.'

'For a start, you reek of expensive perfume. Not just one but several types - multiple rich women. You have several different types of face powder and eye shadow adhering to the sides of your suit jacket. Again, expensive types. Also there are several black hairs - not human, likely make-up brushes. Clearly an inside crime scene, if you had taken off your coat during this weather. A dressing room, probably.'

'Could possibly be a gym changing room.' interjected John.

'Again, unlikely because of the make-up. Any gym with clients rich enough to afford those brands likely would have astronomical fees, and wouldn't ever allow their changing rooms to be that much of a mess. So, we know there are multiple women heavily made-up; that rules out most normal places of work for our crime scene. Hospitals, factories, most offices - people there wouldn't bother with such a fuss. Likely the fashion end of the jobs spectrum, though maybe certain parts of the media. The outside of Lestrade's coat tells us something also. The smears of brown sauce on the arms tell us he's eaten something carelessly. In a hurry to get here. Recently, seeing as it's neither been on the coat long enough for it to properly soak in or for the rain to wash it off. Small smear of red paint on the left shoulder - Speedy's are repainting their doors that exact shade. But there's also a small piece of what appears to be seaweed on the top of your left shoe-'

John glanced down in surprise.

'Seaweed? In London? That shirt is a day old at least and you look exhausted - you were at the crime scene long enough that you would have tried to get food, unless you were too busy the whole time. You stink of cigarette smoke - tut tut, Inspector -'

Lestrade reddened at this looked guilty.

'-so you had time for multiple cigarette breaks, which meant ample time for food. So why were you eating in Speedy's? Options: there was no food, or it was not to your taste. Given that we are looking at the fashion world, plus the additional evidence of the seaweed, my money is on the latter. Sushi, I understand, is a popular choice to provide for models, virtually no fat. It's not to everyone's liking though; either the taste or the, ah, difficulty in eating it neatly -'

Sherlock again glanced at the traces of seaweed and John chucked.

'- led you to give up and instead grab a bite on the way here. So the inference is, fashion show. Had the show opened there would have been food other than sushi provided for those not themselves on the catwalk, media and the like. The fact that you ate a dish you don't like proves there was no alternative, and had there been media there at the time of a murder it wouldn't have been kept quiet and would have been on the one o' clock news. Which it wasn't. So, deduction: the models were there, the press wasn't, a fashion show yet to open.' he ended triumphantly. There was a momentary silence following Sherlock's rant.

'Show off.' John threw out light-heartedly. Sherlock took on a pained expression. 'I think I liked it better when you constantly complimented me' he pouted, pulling his dressing gown tighter around him and looking for all the world like a surly toddler.

'How'd you guess murder?' asked Lestrade quietly, toying with his mug.

'Simple. You were in a hurry, so serious crime. You came to me sooner than you usually would unless it was for a serial case, so you have little evidence to go on - no victim testimony. You made time to stop at Speedy's though; you wouldn't have stopped at all had it been a kidnapping, where time is of the essence. You have the tiniest spot of blood on your collar, not your own. Hardly a challenging leap.'

Lestrade nodded dumbly in response to this, leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose 'So, you'll come then?' he asked.

Sherlock's eyes flashed 'thought you'd never ask' he grinned, and hurtled off in the direction of his room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

Looking at Lestrade, a shard of sympathy shot through John. 'You look wrecked' he commented, not unkindly. 'Yeah, I'm properly flat out at the minute' Lestrade admitted 'though the little trip to Devon did wonders' he added with a sarcastic smirk. John smiled back. He hadn't really thought about how well he actually got on with Lestrade before, but on consideration John supposed he could comfortably call Lestrade a friend at this stage, despite only having known him for less than a year. His contemplations were interrupted by a crash and a strangled cry from Sherlock's room. He exchanged an alarmed glance with Lestrade and rose from his seat. The door flew open and Sherlock strode out, looking as imperious and haughty as ever, dressed impeccably in his usual attire. John sometimes marvelled at how quickly he could transform from lounging in his pyjamas looking like an overgrown child to the suave, together image he projected in public. 'What was that noi-' John asked looked over Sherlock's shoulder. 'Nothing' Sherlock answered, slamming the door shut quickly behind him. John stared at him in suspicion. Sherlock beamed back in a brilliant imitation of complete innocence. 'Shall we go? Lead the way inspector…' Sherlock swept out of the room in Lestrade's wake. 'Sherlock Holmes if you've lost more tarantulas in that damn room of yours…' The remainder of John's words were cut off as the front door slammed behind the three men. The house was still again.


	2. The Theatre

**Apologies for the length of the chapter! R&R's very welcome. **

'I know he's brilliant and all' sighed Lestrade 'but sometimes I honestly think he's taking the piss.' John and Lestrade stood side by side in mutual bemusement watching the consulting detective's lanky form hanging precariously over the edge of the elevated catwalk, legs on the raised platform and head upside down, his dark hair almost but not quite sweeping the ground. 'Though some seem to be enjoying it' commented Lestrade with a smirk nodding his head towards a young male SOCO who was unashamedly ogling Sherlock's upturned arse, his forgotten evidence bag and fibre samples clutched in hand. John snorted in amusement.

'Oh dear. New, is he?'

Lestrade nodded acquiescence. 'Good luck to him, poor sod. He'll soon learn once Sherlock talks. Not a mistake you make twice, is checking the 'world's only consulting detective' out.'

'Wouldn't have thought you'd have grounds to know' laughed John.

Lestrade chuckled sarcastically 'Not personally – but Donovan did.'

'Donovan!' John almost choked in surprise. He knew of Sally's absolute hatred of Sherlock – to date he'd never once heard her refer to him as anything other than 'Freak'.

'Yup. Again, when she was new, and had never met him before. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but one minute she was eying him up, the next she was stomping away, face flaming. I think I can make a good guess though; he had his deduction face on. I think that's when she decided she didn't like him.'

'Hmm. Makes you wonder when Anderson decided…'

Lestrade snorted in amusement, attempting to disguise it as a cough. John's lips quirked upwards. Despite their valiant efforts they soon found themselves breathless with smothered laughter at the preposterous mental image.

'What are you two smirking at?'

Whether it was the suspicious tone or the wild, gravity defying hair induced from hanging upside-down, something about Sherlock's sudden appearance by their side only made the giggling fit worse. Sherlock regarded them with bemusement as they calmed themselves. 'Nothin' at all' remarked John casually, once he had righted himself. Sherlock eyed him warily, eyes flickering to Lestrade. He waited a moment then walked over to the corpse without a word, still looking a little puzzled. They both followed, biting their lips to disguise their mirth.

The room itself was cavernous, the décor mostly in chrome and black except for the blinding white elevated platform in the centre. There was a distance of about two metres between the end of the catwalk and the seats. The seating arrangements were in three levels – the gallery on the ground floor, the balcony and the gods up at the top, giving John the impression it was a converted theatre. The contrast between musty theatre seats and modern catwalk gave the unsettling felling of being in the middle of two different rooms which had been spliced together by accident, adding to the atmosphere of unease in the place. The whole focus of attention couldn't help but be on the centre of the catwalk, where at current, an apparent incongruity in the otherwise empty space, lay a woman, unmistakably devoid of all life.

Lestrade and John regained their composure pretty instantly on approaching the body, their natural professionalism taking over. The woman was young, no older than very early twenties at John's guess. The slender girl lay sprawled on her back, her heavily made-up blue eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Her naturally pale face was drained further still of colour by the harsh catwalk spotlights. Thick, chestnut-tinted hair lay loose in waves, bundling round the nape of her neck and accentuating the unnatural pallor. Her left hand curled beside her head, palm up, showing long fingers with nails painted metallic green. Her clothes were imitation vintage; a dusky green chemise dress, only just hitting her pale thighs, covered with delicate sequin butterflies in green and gold. Carefully painted toe-nails peeked out of black, high-heeled shoes. The overall effect was reminiscent of the 1920s. John couldn't help but compare the dead girl to a doll; still, perfect, lifeless, pale. Even in death her eyes possessed an unusual brightness. He shivered a little and focused on Sherlock's movements as the detective carefully examined the ground around the corpse.

'Lucie Cotillard, aged twenty-two' began Lestrade 'French by birth, born in Paris to a French mother and an English father. She's been living in England since about fourteen, sent to some posh boarding school for girls in Surrey after her mum died. Moved up to London when she graduated to work as a model. Apparently daddy wasn't too pleased with that - she had told him she was studying nursing in City University London - he cut her allowance off completely when he found out the truth but by that stage she was earning enough to support herself.'

Sherlock moved around the corpse, a slight frown creasing his brow. 'They were just doing a practice run when Lucie suddenly collapsed, appeared to be having a seizure. It was just herself, the woman who designed her clothes, a miss-' Lestrade checked his notes '-Alicia Frost, and the lighting coordinator, a Mr. Paul Steel. Lucie was dead by the time the ambulance crews arrived, nothing they could do to revive her.'

'Where's the rest?' Sherlock shot at Lestrade, standing up straight. 'The rest…?' John didn't follow. 'There was blood on Lestrade's collar, there's none here' Sherlock pointed out distractedly 'plus, what in that chain of events suggests murder, unless there was other evidence? If a young model collapses and dies, what's the first thing you as a doctor would think of?'

'Malnutrition, maybe drugs' admitted John.

'Exactly. There have been conspicuous cases in the recent past, models that died minutes after stepping off the runway. Unless there was other evidence to indicate criminal activity they would have taken her straight to the hospital.'

Lestrade frowned in consternation at the younger detective's first comment.

'Heart failure' John offered 'caused by eating disorders usually. Happened there a few years ago to a girl from Uruguay just after a show, around the same age. They made a huge deal out of it in the media at the time, maybe you remember…?'

'No, I don't. Poor kid, so young.' Greg shifted uncomfortably and sighed, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if it were too tight and grimacing. John remembered suddenly that Greg had a girl of his own, a young teenager. Absently, John noted he was probably thinking about her, but decided not to comment. He wasn't a father himself and couldn't possibly sympathise with the hundred little nagging worries of a parent. He supposed that a job like Lestrade's, exposed to the vilest of human nature on a daily basis, did nothing to allay those fears. Lestrade's gruff voice interrupted his thoughts.

'Changing rooms, backstage!' he called after the already fast retreating back of the raven-haired man. Lestrade sighed again and followed 'C'mon, let's make sure he keeps himself out of trouble'.

The narrow white corridors backstage weren't half as glamorous as the main auditorium had been. In some places the paint was peeling from the walls, exposing raw brick and plasterboard. 'It's a converted theatre' Lestrade explained as he led John down several corridors with squeaking wooden floors, following Sherlock's footsteps.

'The theatre began to struggle financially in the nineties; rumour has it the last owner was a drunkard and squandered theatre money paying off his own debts 'til they couldn't keep it afloat anymore. It was bought over by a designer, Alicia Frost - for a song, apparently. Lots of controversy between Frost and the Theatre Trust, a group of activists and actors, most of whom used to work here. The theatre had a fairly long history, the Trust wanted to stop Frost's original plan to knock the whole place down and build a state of the art workshop and showroom. Pretty intense legal battles ensued, but the Trust did succeed to an extent – they had a historical preservation order placed on the building which means Frost can't structurally change it, though she did rip out the stage to replace it with a catwalk before the order was put in place.' The two men reached a flimsy wooden door guarded by a thoroughly bored looking female constable, who made a visible effort to look a little more alert as they approached. The constable nodded to Lestrade and looked curiously at John as they passed. 'Holmes is already in there.'

John was uncertain as to which of them the comment was directed at. Lestrade nodded in response and the constable closed the door after them, staring at John the whole time. John shook the uneasiness off. He'd have to get used to it, ever since his blog began to gain popularity incidences of recognition happened more and more often.

The room itself was surprisingly long but not very wide, with a low roof. It was lined on both sides by lighted mirrors and small tables. The atmosphere was close and claustrophobic, not aided by the fact there were no windows. The rails of clothes up and down the length of the room meant that John couldn't see the far wall. Make-up kits were scattered, messily open, in front of most of the mirrors. Powders, eyeshadow and smears of mascara darkened the surface of the tables.

'John.' The voice came from the far end of the room. John followed it, Lestrade close on his heels.

Sherlock stood in front of a mirror, leaning forward as if to examine himself. His attention was fixed upon something written on the mirror. John initially thought it was written in lipstick but as he drew closer he realised with a chill of horror the thin red liquid was, in fact, blood.

'Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses... lead us not into temptation.'

John could see the Sherlock's unreadable expression raven curls, as well as the chilling message reflected back and forth between opposite mirrors. One mirror reflected another and John had the familiar dizzying feeling he could see both his unmoving friend and the unnerving message stretching on to infinity.

'Opinion?' Sherlock asked quietly, turning to face John, steely grey eyes locking onto John's hazel ones.

'Er… religious?'

'Go on.'

'Not her blood, I shouldn't think, there weren't any visible injuries on the body.'

'We've taken a sample for DNA testing…' interrupted Lestrade.

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to respond when all three men were distracted by the door suddenly bursting open, much to the audible protests of the young constable, to reveal a wiry middle-aged woman with greying hair and a brusque manner.

'There you are!' she cried in anger upon seeing Sherlock, and rushed over to grab his arm, much to his evident surprise. 'Stop bothering the officers, you were meant to be in studio twenty minutes ago!' 'But-'Sherlock blustered, but he was cut off immediately. 'Oh, it's a nasty business, very nasty, but Michael didn't send you over here to hang around making idle chit-chat. My god, male models' she turned with a smile to John and Lestrade 'easy on the eyes but nothing between the ears, eh?' she reached up and ruffled Sherlock's hair, then slapped him playfully on the arse. The subsequent look of stunned horror on Sherlock's face was almost too much to bear.

John attempted – vainly - to remain composed to help his friend extricate himself from the situation 'Miss, I think there has been a misunderstanding. This is Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective who DI Lestrade-' he waved his hand vaguely over his shoulder to where Lestrade standing, jaw open in shock '-has brought in to help investigate the death of Lucie Cotillard. I'm John Watson.' Barely suppressing his mirth and marveling at his own self-composure he shook the hand of the woman standing in front of him. Hell, any woman who had the bravery to attempt to slap Sherlock's arse deserved a medal.

'Oh' said the woman, looking a little put out but not at all abashed. 'Alicia Frost. I'm the designer who owns this place.' She adjusted her steel framed spectacles on her hawk-like nose and looked around. 'Can't imagine where that model has got to then. André drops out at the last minute so Michael says he can send another –gives me his best assurances this one's reliable - but they're all as capricious as the next, I suppose.' She talked at speed, then sighed and turned to examine the three men's faces, as if actually just seeing them for the first time. 'About Lucie, is it? Ah, yes, so sad. Such a dear, was Lucie, on her good days that is. Well, I expect you have questions. I have to go hunt down this bloody face-puller – probably got lost following a butterfly or something, god knows where Michael finds them, I swear – but I should be in my office upstairs in twenty minutes if you need to find me.' She clacks her way over to the door in her high-heels before turning to look Sherlock up and down in appraisal. 'Don't you leave without getting my card – we could use cheekbones like that for our next autumn/winter collection.' She smiles alarmingly and clacks down the corridor, leaving a swinging door and a stunned silence in her wake. Lestrade shuts his mouth from where it has been hanging open and glances across at John. They both look at Sherlock, whose expression is somewhere between extreme bemusement and mild trauma.

Lestrade and John begin to howl with laughter.


End file.
